Life Without Hope (18 page)

pus of FAM-U,” Nandi said. Her voice was so vivacious and full

of energy she could pull people through the speakers. Public

Enemy played in the background and the small radio station was

alive. The topic was supposed to be on Affirmative Action, but to

my surprise, Nandi flipped the script on me when she announced

that the topic was going to be, “Where have all the good men

gone?” I furrowed my brow with a quizzical expression and just

listened while she unveiled another facet of herself. As always, like

the audience, I enjoyed listening to her talk.

“
The reason that I have abstained from sex is because when I

do decide to give a man my body, it has to be a brotha that I want

to spend the rest of my life with. He has to be very special; my

King. So until then, I choose to remain celibate. Unfortunately,

there’s a shortage of good men.”

I watched as Nandi talked, and noticed how her brown eyes

sparkled as she held a mug of herbal tea in her hand. And for the

first time I saw hurt in her eyes, as I gazed at this beautiful ebony

Queen. Then she said, “So far all of the Black men that I have

dated ain’t shit …” Nandi lambasted that over the air. I almost fell

out of my chair. The Dean of the school already threatened us

once to cut down the language. I played a record by Gil Scott

Heron, titled “The Revolution Won’t Be Televised” and watched

as the phone lines lit up like a Christmas tree.

One sister by the name of Regina called in, and we went live

on the air with her conversation.

“
Yeah, you’re right girl! Black men act like they’re scared of

commitment, and sista, you ain’t wrong for keeping your stuff on

lock down. Once you give them some, they start act’in disrespect-

ful. Give a brotha some cat, and he will turn into a dog,” the caller

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said, causing us all to erupt in jubilant laughter.

Another sister called in. Her boyfriend of four years wanted to

be a rapper. She said that he never had a job, but hustled to sup-

port her. She loved him immensely, but was ready to settle down,

get married and have some babies. He wasn’t. Our advice to her

was to let him know, and if he did not approve, let his ass go!

Another woman called in. She refused to give her name. Her

voice was sad and full of pain.

“
My boyfriend is sick … he has AIDS.” We could hear her

breathing on the phone like she was struggling with her voice. I

leaned for ward in my seat tr ying to catch each and every word.

“
He is a very heavy … drug user. We have been together for

over five years –”

I interrupted.

“
My sista, have you been tested for AIDS?”

“
Yes … No …Well, sor t of,” the caller stuttered.

“
Sorta? What kind of damn answer is that?” Nandi chirped in.

“
A few years ago I was tested, but my boyfriend seemed to get

upset with me.” She began to cry. Nandi and I just looked at each

other.

“
It’s as if he wants me to catch it too. We have been having

unprotected sex.” Nandi bolted straight up in her seat spilling her

tea.

“
I have a 7-year-old daughter from another relationship.”

“
Listen! Listen to me, my sista. You gotta protect yourself as

well as your child. Ain’t no man wor th your life, not to mention

your child’s life too. AIDS is serious! It’s a biological warfare

designed for population control to kill off Black folks –”

“
But I love him,” she interrupted.

“
Do you love him enough to die for him?” Nandi yelled into

the phone, I cringed in my seat.

No answer. The line went dead. Nandi just looked at the

receiver shaking her head.

The next caller was a man. I recognized his voice instantly. It

was my boyfriend Marcus. I perked up and mouthed to Nandi

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that it was Marcus. Adamantly, she waved her hand to let her han-

dle him. There was no secret about it, she thought he was too fem-

inine. Too pretty. A real momma’s boy, which he was.

“
Ya’ll sistas talk all that yippity yap about men being dogs and

whatnot, but when a real man steps to you, ya’ll don’t want to

acknowledge ya’ll’s place.”

“
And what place is that?” Nandi asked dryly.

“
Ya’ll’s place is letting the man be the boss, and ya’ll follow.

Talking ‘bout that independent Black woman crap. Ya’ll need to

read the Bible! Women were created to be man’s helper, to clean

house and have babies –”

“
The Bible also says, if thee eye offend, thee pluck it out.

Which means you need to pluck your stupid-ass tongue out!”

Nandi shot back.

“
Face it, men feel threatened by a woman’s aspirations to be

independent and self-sufficient. Strong minded Black women are

tired of being used and abused by Black men that only have one

thing on their minds–how to exploit a sista for what they can get.”

Nandi then turned and looked me dead in the face with an expres-

sion that read like she was about to deliver a cliché.

“
If you don’t believe in a Black woman, you can’t possibly

believe in yourself, because it was the Black woman that made

your ass. Marcus, don’t call here no damn mo’, hating on the sis-

tas,” Nandi sassed, hanging up the phone.

Click!

We laughed, and gave each other high-five hand smacks. It

truly turned out to be one of the best shows we had. We had about

a half a million listeners, young and old, Black and white, which

used to come as a surprise to me, but then Nandi taught me that

white people have always been intrigued by cer tain facets of urban

life. I thought about the white boys that I was star ting to see with

gold in their mouths.

After ward we just sat around the studio chatting, drinking

herbal tea, and enjoying each other’s vibes. Nandi Shakur was by

far my best friend in all the world. As much as I hated bringing

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back the memories of my one night fling with Life Thugstin, I had

to tell her everything, well, except for the part about seeing myself

on the news.

Nandi listened astutely while occasionally nodding her head,

hands clasped together in her lap, eyes lidded with something I

could not read, and her mouth slightly agape. Nandi’s parents

were both Civil Rights lawyers back in the day, and even after

retiring they were still active. Her father was part of the Rodney

King defense. By Nandi being the only child, in some way they

breathed the fire of revolutionary consciousness in her spirits and

every year they still traveled to the Motherland. She was rooted

like a tree stump in her history; she wore it like some kind of

badge of honor. Once when she told me that her parents were

both Black Panthers in the 60s, that told me so much about her as

a person, as in her upbringing. I figured that was how the show

got its name, the Panther Power Hours. After I finished talking,

Nandi leaned back in her seat. “Girl, that sounds like a best seller.

Who is this dude? John Dillinger? And you gave him the poonany,

too? Did ya’ll rob a bank or something?” she teased and her brown

eyes sparkled.

I made a face that said, “Hello! I am dead serious!” Her eyes

narrowed, taking me in, looking for any sign that I could be jok-

ing. She found none.

“
Hope!” Nandi said screeching my name the way my mother

would have, I imagined, if I had one. “Please tell me that you’re

lying and just making all this up.” I shook my head no, and

looked down at the stool, wondering if I should have told her so

much.

In walked the handsome brotha that came on late night. He

called himself Soul Man. He hosted the show playing all the old

tunes. He was also in one of my classes. I think he had a serious

crush on Nandi. Whenever she walked into the room, I noticed

that his face would beam and he would display that fifty-watt

smile. We all exchanged pleasantries, as Nandi and I left, giving

him room to set up for his show. We walked to the parking lot and

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I showed her the evidence of my betrayal to Marcus, as well as

myself. I showed her the car. She whistled as she looked inside as

I held the door open for her.

“
Well, at least you didn’t give him the poonany for free.”

“
I didn’t sell it to him either.”

“
Oh heffah don’t be so touchy.”

Looking deeper into the car, Nandi spotted more truth.

“
Well,” Nandi droned raising one suspicious eyebrow at me.

“
Tell you what,” Nandi said in a conspiratorial tone. “Let’s just

split the money and throw the gun in the river, and we’ll say that

you were out trickin.” I swung my purse at her. Nandi danced out

of the way laughing at me. I guess she must have sensed the seri-

ous side of me, because the smile eased from the soft corners of her

cheeks and concern moved to her eyes.

“
Hope, you’re my best friend in the whole world. There can be

a thing as an intelligent fool. You read all those books, Nat Turner,

Ida B. Wells, Black people that have died and sacrificed their lives,

and at times I feel that you take them more seriously than the peo-

ple that wrote them –”

“
You’re the one that gave them to me,” I interrupted just as a

few brothas walked by and got into a black Jeep. Nandi gazed up

at the moon as people do when they’re contemplating thoughts. I

did too. The sky was dotted with stars. The celestial heavens in all

its majesty was decorated with a crescent moon, that for some

strange reason, looked out of place. It hung sideways with a shit-

eating grin at my young naiveness.

“
Hope, you are the most passionate person that I know, but

you can’t literally look at all life the same way, as to what happened

to us back in slavery, or the years that we were lynched and hung.”

“
Why not? You said it yourself. If white folks ain’t changed by

now, they ain’t never going to change.”

“
See, that’s what I’m talking about.” Nandi responded. “Hope,

what you did was foolish. I know that you were tryin to save the

brotha, but damn.” Nandi made a face at me that I could not

deny. Logic.

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“
I know,” I said finally. My voice trembled. The air suddenly

felt crisp and cool on my skin giving me goose bumps.

“
The only lawyer you’re going to be is a jailhouse lawyer if you

keep making bad judgments like that.” She threw her arms around

me. Lord knows I needed her hug, her support. Her friendship

meant the world to me. Somehow I think she knew it. In my eyes

Nandi Shakur, morally, was the perfect Black woman. We sat right

there under that shit grinning moon and talked until two thirty in